


The Blossoming Vines

by azephirin



Series: Cracked Stars Shining [7]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 1000-5000 Words, Alternate Universe - Canon, Book: Vox, Books, Cracked Stars Shining, Crossover, Erotica, Manhattan, Masturbation, New York, Other, Outtakes, Rape Recovery, Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>My own vineyard is mine to give....</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blossoming Vines

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** This could be considered underage: Ginevra is seventeen and Sam is twenty-four. Everything that happens is entirely legal, but...well, you'll understand if you read it.
> 
> **Author's note**: This is another outtake from [Cracked Stars Shining](http://archiveofourown.org/works/21206), and will make much more sense if you've read through at least [chapter nine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/21206/chapters/27473) of that story. This takes place sometime after chapter nine but prior to [chapter eleven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/21206/chapters/27478) (and [Somewhere I Have Never Travelled](http://archiveofourown.org/works/49567)). Title from [Song of Solomon 2:11–13](http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Song%20of%20Solomon%202:11-13;&version=31;) (NIV); summary from [Song of Solomon 8:12](http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Song%20of%20Solomon%208:12;&version=31;). The rest of the Sam/Ginevra stories are [here](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/22484.html#cutid1).
> 
> **Disclaimer**: The _Harry Potter_ books belong to J. K. Rowling. _Supernatural_ belongs to Eric Kripke. I'm doing this for love, not money.

__

> _His fingers cleared a path, combing through her curls and pushing her labia aside. His thumbs slid in her cream._

  
_Cream?_ thinks Ginevra. _Eew_. She puts the book aside and picks up one of the others.

> _We were both stroking ourselves, and I could feel against the back of my hand the blanket pulling with her little movements as I made mine....She was flushed, her cheeks were shiny, she looked so transformed and sexual and elegant...and I said, "Can I touch your arm?" and she nodded, and I put my fingers very lightly on the inside of her forearm, just above the wrist, and I felt her tendon going and going as she stroked herself, and this indirect feeling of being able to take the pulse of her masturbating was too much, I said, "I think I'm going to come," and I started to come into the blanket._

Better. This is something people do. People do this. She used to do this, thinking sometimes of Harry, other times of Dean Thomas, sometimes of other boys, depending on whom she'd seen that day, who might have looked particularly fit in his Quidditch robes. She remembers the sensation of her own fingers on her secret parts, how much she'd wanted Harry to touch her there, but she was never sure how to ask for it.

_Transformed and sexual and elegant._ That's not gross; it's not dirty. A man wrote that about a woman, a woman he wanted, a woman whose permission he asked to do nothing more than touch her arm. Ginevra stays underneath the sheet, but kicks off her knickers, and diffidently, hesitantly, for the first time in months, slides her fingers through wiry red curls and touches that small, soft part of herself. The contact, her own, is light, familiar, and she looks at the words on the page, imagines that fictional man sitting next to that fictional woman, watching her touch herself; she remembers being close to Sam, how clean he smelled, how good his arm felt around her. She loves his hands, the hard muscles in his arms, the lean length of his body (she only wishes that he'd occasionally wear less than five layers of clothing at any given time, so that she could see more of it). She wants to run her hands underneath his layers of shirts, touch the bare skin, brush her thumbs over his flat nipples, feel him shiver.

_I'd have to stand on tiptoe just to reach,_ she thinks, unbidden, and giggles.

So she'd make him lie down first. Take off his shirt(s), sprawl out on his back, give himself up to her.

Yes.

She'd use her tongue, not just her fingers, on his nipples; tease them with the soft point, listen to him gasp. Oh, that gasp would be satisfying. All of him, spread out for her, given willingly.

She's not reading her book anymore. She sets it down, uses her free hand to trace circles over her own nipples. There's a rush of wetness between her thighs, and she pushes up against her fingers. The tiny nub of her clit is hard now, and trailing her middle finger over it makes her gasp. She does it again, stroking back and forth, the contact light and teasing and exquisite, and she has to turn her head to the side as her hips arch up and she bites back a moan.

In her mind, her hands go to his belt, unbuckling it and then resting for a moment at the top button of his jeans. He's up on his elbows, watching her, and she leans down to swipe her tongue around his navel. (That's safe; his jeans are still on. It's just his belly button.) His response is halfway between a laugh and a gasp, and she laughs, too.

She undoes the top two buttons, kisses his belly, licks the line of one hip, then the other. He says her name and she grins at him. He's hers.

Third button and fourth, and she can see the outline of his cock in his black briefs. She remembers being stretched out against Harry, long sunlit kisses by the lake; on one of the sofas in the Gryffindor common room, late at night, her legs on either side of his hips, her hands in his hair, flicking her tongue along his throat and around the shell of his ear; she remembers feeling that shape pressed against her then, seeking the answering part of herself, and she was sure that she'd give it, when they had some privacy and the time was right. She'd imagined being naked with Harry, somewhere just the two of them, naked and in that position, and, Merlin, she'd wanted so badly to feel him inside her, to feel him shudder as he came—

—and now she knows what that feels like, but not because she wanted to—

—no, this isn't about that, this is about her, and about Sam because he's invited even if he doesn't know it yet—

—back to Sam, back to Sam, back to Sam, whose hands are gentle in her hair, not urging, just running his fingers through it, and it feels good, safe. She rubs the heel of her hand against him, through the layers of cloth, and he makes a sound of contented arousal.

She slides her hand inside the briefs, ready to touch him—

—but she remembers what that hair feels like, and she can't do it, not now, back up. Rewind, like on that Muggle moving-picture tape she watched with Sam. Sam, Sam, this is Sam. Her hand's still on the outside, pressing down but not touching directly, and he arches up into it, biting his lip, and his eyes are their usual murky green-brown and their gaze is only for her.

Back to herself, her fingers—she needs more. She remembers this, even though it's been a long time; she adds her index and ring fingers, rubbing with all three, and, oh, it's good. She scrapes the fingernails of her other hand over a nipple—not hard, just enough that she can feel it—and that's good too, yes. Maybe that could be Sam's teeth. Oh, there's an idea, Sam lying alongside her, skin warm against hers as he sucks and licks at her breasts. They're incredibly sensitive, always have been, and Harry still doesn't know that she came one of those days out by the lake when he finally got up the nerve to do something with them. She remembers that, how warm it had been, how she'd put her own hand over Harry's and raised her shirt and pushed down her bra and shown him where to touch her and how. His eyes had nearly crossed with shock (though not with just shock), and she'd hummed happily as he'd caressed her with charming shyness. Then he'd lowered his head, only to jerk it back up again and whisper, _Can I?_

_Yes_, she'd told him, and moved her hand to the back of his neck, and she'd nearly come right then, at that first touch of his inexpert mouth.

Sam would know more. He's older. He had a girlfriend. (He had a boyfriend before the girlfriend, and isn't that thoroughly modern and scandalous?) He knows things. He would know how to touch her, and she would let him. Oh, Merlin, would she let him. She'd let him move one of his hands—he has a hand free, it's only his lips that are occupied currently with her breasts—down her ribcage, passing over her belly, and then he'd pause, because he'd want to know that it's OK. And it's OK. It's more than OK.

_Yes, Sam,_ she'd tell him, and his fingers would find their way into her knickers. They're longer than any others that have touched her, and they wouldn't remind her of anything bad. They would feel completely different from anything she's ever known. They'd just be Sam. Her fingers are there now, and so are Sam's in the fantasy, and she's rubbing hard, fast, making little whimpering sounds. "Sam," she gasps, and realizes it was out loud, and she doesn't care. It feels good, and she twists at her nipple just a little bit with her other hand, imagines Sam doing that and then soothing it with his tongue, all while his fingers are still insistent and coaxing on her clit. They move quick and sure, and he moves to kiss her and she wants to moan into his mouth.

Fast, so fast, so much sensation, she's melting into it. She's melting, hot and inevitable, like heated gold, and her cry echoes around the room as she comes, shudders out the orgasm in a bright, helpless wave of pleasure. Her fingers keep moving until the aftershocks have faded, and she collapses back onto the bed, limp, sweaty, and satiated.

_Sam_, she thinks as her heartbeat slows. _Sam, Sam, Sam._

She reaches over to wipe her hand on the sheet, but something makes her pause, and she sniffs it first. The smell is clean and sharp, nothing like the fishy scent that boys joke about. It's actually not unpleasant. She does wipe her hand, though, and then pushes the books onto the floor—most unused, but that's just fine—and turns over onto her stomach. She's drowsy and replete, and ready to sleep for nine or ten hours. She thinks her dreams will be good ones.

*****************

 

A mile and a half away, on East Thirtieth Street, Sam wakes up gasping. It's not a nightmare. He tries to remember the dream but can't. He's so hard it hurts, and he's not even awake all the way when he shoves down his boxers and wraps a hand around his cock. He comes almost instantly, sinking his teeth into the skin of his forearm to keep from moaning, _God, Ginevra, yes_.

**Author's Note:**

> The first book excerpt is from _[Personal Assets](http://www.powells.com/biblio/62-9780425199312-0)_, by Emma Holly. In fairness, I should note that she is usually an excellent erotic writer; I just happened to open the book to a rare infelicitous passage. The second excerpt is from _[Vox](http://www.powells.com/biblio/1-9780679742111-0)_, by Nicholson Baker.


End file.
